


Don't Open Your Eyes

by ClementineStarling



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: M/M, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 05:39:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5900395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The blind have been blessed with security. ;)</p><p>My attempt at throne-collar-chain-fic...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Open Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what this is but, eh, rape and adverbs?  
> I somewhat blame conversations about meat-suits and tentacles and eldritch horrors (yes, I'm looking at you scrap!)  
> and Jaq's hospitality that bewitched my mind and ensnared the senses. :P  
> Which was both a lot of fun btw, no complaints, only the fictional result is... questionable. Don't drink and write I guess.  
> But, however non-happy I am with this, I must get it out of my head, which traditionally means abandoning it in the wild:  
> So bye bye Hänsel & Gretel, good luck with the evil witch!
> 
> Warning: implications of non-con; also this does not make a lick of sense

Most days the world is granted an illusion of normalcy.

Most days however are not _all_ days. 

There are times when the light folds over the city like coloured paper, diffusing into the sulphur and cinder of an oncoming storm, just before darkness falls in a scurry of beetles and soot-black flakes of ashen rain, and no one is allowed the comfort of pretence anymore. 

It's on these rare days that their ruler holds court and the representatives of his people are obliged to pay their respects, flock to his abode like believers to church. 

On their way they must pass the neatly polished skulls of those so unlucky as to have been in the line of succession _before_ their rightful king. It weren't _that_ many, mind you, just enough to form a guard of honour, just enough to remind even the more rebellious among them of their lord's resolve. 

“I cannot have anyone doubt my consort's claim,” he'd said as he had lead them like lambs to the slaughter, a frightened herd of aristocrats to end their lives in an echo of Jacobin terror, swiftly and proficiently disposed of by the falling blade. The ground was soaked in royal blood that day, and he used it to anoint their new king, to drew glyphs of power on his naked skin before he crowned him right there, among the bodies, set the heavy band of rulership upon his brow with red-stained fingers, and there was not a shred of doubt left in the hearts of his terrified subjects.

“Never forget,” he told them, and they did not. Not really.  
They also try not to remember though, and most days he lets them.

__

Daniel Coward awaits the days of worship with the ever-same sense of anticipation and dread twisting in his stomach. Some sick part of him is thrilled, excited, another queasy with foreboding, unsure about what to expect. There is only one thing about the event that is definite: Blackwood never forgoes the chance to stage some sort of a spectacle, minimalistic in a way, he is not one for mere pageant, there must be meaning in the display of his power, a certain symbolism. A message everyone will understand. But what exactly it is that he has come up with, remains no less a secret to Coward than to anyone else.

It hasn't always been like this.  
There were times, when Coward orchestrated these demonstrations, when it was his hand that pulled the strings, his whisper in Blackwood's ear that made things come to pass. But since then many years have gone by and Blackwood has indisputably proven his own gift for drama. 

His choice of location is perfect. He receives his subjects in an audience hall so vast, so austere a temple, it allows for no doubt about his position or theirs: he is their god, and they are but insects under his feet, vermin to be crushed by his heel, if he so pleases, and he needs no additional pomp and splendour to emphasise the legitimacy of his rule. 

The marble stretches, cold and sleek and sky-wide, up to the throne of this Olympus, where he is sitting on a dais, high above the crowd, and Coward perched on the steps, curled against his legs like a pet. 

He is the only ornament Blackwood tolerates in his presence, his high priest and their king, adorned with the regalia of the empire, crown and ring and robe, but also bearing Blackwood's mark, the unmistakable testimony of his allegiance. Whatever Blackwood gives him, golden bracelets for wrists and ankles, a wide metal collar, the studs and rings that pierce his skin, and as much as every one of these items may resemble jewellery, it all conveys the same unmistakable truth: while Blackwood may have chosen Britain as his beloved, greatly favoured among the nations, and its king as his consort, it is still subject to this absolute rule, from which no one, not even Coward is exempt. They are owned, slaves and serfs, every last one of them.

Henry's hand rests heavy on Coward's nape, equally claim and blessing, while their subjects are gathering in the hall, yet it is always Coward who addresses them, his voice magnified by the bare walls, the acoustics allowing even a whisper to carry to the last corner of the room. He speaks softly at first, beginning the liturgy with a praise of loyalty and obedience, then more passionately, words that reverberate like thunder through the hall, a prophecy of war and glory. And they listen, awestruck, terrified, a flock of sheep charmed by their shepherd, a human ocean washing against the jagged rock of Blackwood's throne. 

The incense curls thick as fog above the crowd, mingling with spicy-sweet plumes of hashish and opium, the smoke rich on everyone's tongue. It crawls into lungs and clouds the senses; minds become slack and open like ploughed fields, eager to receive the seed of thought, words planted in their souls to grow and fester.

And then, when Coward's sermon has finally come to an end, Blackwood beckons them even closer, to kneel and to worship, all these noble lords and ladies, who are hardly worthy to kiss Coward's feet, and who are still granted that very honour, are allowed to press their lips in reverence against his toes, instep and ankle, even the swell of his calves, if he is gracious.

But it does not stop there, hasn't stopped there for a long time.

__

He hears the faint chinking of the chain a good long second before he feels its tug. Just long enough to anticipate the unpleasantness to come. The high collar pulls tight against his throat, the pressure is nauseating. Coward swallows against the urge to gag. He straightens, leans back to reduce the strain, wrists obediently crossed behind him. The ceremonial robes have fallen aside like a theatre's curtain, presenting his body to the crowd. Greedy gazes flicker over his form, over the porcelain pallor of his torso and the defined line of muscle, catching on the gold-studded nipples, the flushed rosy length of his cock. 

He kneels between Henry's legs, facing their subjects, bared to their scrutiny.  
“Behold Britannia,” Henry says with the unconcealed pride of ownership, and Coward is seized by the sheer horror of being recognised for what he is, for what Henry has made him: a whore, a monster in the old sense of the word, a sign. He sees how people flinch away (in fear, in disgust, he does not know) and how they are drawn towards him nonetheless, enthralled by his nudity.

Henry's fingers come to rest against the side of Coward's neck, almost as chilled as the chain wrapped around them, metal-cold and shiver-inducing on his shame-hot skin. He knows he must do this, play his part in Henry's drama, and so he bears the touch, and does not recoil from the intimacy, even though--

Even though it is wrong. This is not how their relations were meant to be: confined to their bedroom, where his degradation remains a secret and such unseemly behaviour unwitnessed, where no one sees what is, and what should not be. The forbiddenness of the act, the sick slide-slap of flesh on flesh, the sinful hunger, open mouthed kisses designed to devour, no restraint, just teeth and spit and blood and passion. Now here, here in public they're supposed to display a carefully crafted impression of dominance and control. And they did start out like that, almost equals once, determined to build an empire based not merely on magic or violence but on the supremacy of the picture, the overwhelming effect of a show, the make-believe of religion. Yet of the pretence of these early days nearly nothing is left; they have been trapped by their own act, or at least Coward is.

Henry presents him as the symbol of England's subjugation, as saviour and lamb, the virgin-sacrifice, spell-frozen in time. He has gone to considerable length to conserve his darling's marble-beauty, though, as Coward has grown to suspect, perhaps only to uphold the illusion of youth and innocence for this circle of violation, this recurring reenactment of the rape of the Sabines. Because that is exactly what this is, Coward himself proposed it, in the very beginning. Not like this of course, what he had in mind was more the general principle of a regime built on the intricate knots of blood and family. Pair up friend with foe, bid allies to marry the wives and daughters of the enemy, a ploy as old as humankind, and yet one that must be remembered as the founding myth of their empire.

Coward even devised the first performance back then, and like all of his schemes it was brilliant. Henry has, after all, enough Roman blood in him to play his part to perfection; it's not only the darkness of his hair and the bronze sheen of his skin that betray his heritage, there is something about his aquiline features that invokes the notion of a conqueror's appetite. He also understands the benefits a ruler gains from partaking in a tradition of bread and circuses, is always willing to share the spoils of war. Which eventually has come to include even Coward.

Which is, in turn, something that despite all his brilliance he did not foresee: that of all things it would be his claim that made himself a pawn in this game. For who would be worthier of his affection than a king, Henry said. Why waste his time on meaningless women, when he can have him instead, noblest of the men in his empire. Why content himself with anything less?

And every year, just as Coward advised, Henry gives the plebs a taste of his triumph.

He wants to close his eyes, but finds he doesn't need to, they are too many to tell them apart, like a flock of birds they look all the same, they blur before his vision, their faces turned into featureless masks as they settle on him as crows on a corpse, ready to pick him apart.

The drag of lips is hot, even compared to the fever-burn of his shame. They kiss him _there_ like they used to kiss his hand, and now kiss his feet, a brief brush of skin on skin, but every once in a while someone revels in the touch, noses eagerly into the hay-warmth of trimmed hair, licks reverently along the swelling silky flesh. Here and there, Blackwood waves a hand, and a mouth closes fully around Coward's cock, wet tight hotness and the slither of tongue, a gentle sucking, and Coward bites his lip bloody with the effort to stay upright, stay quiet. 

The crown weighs heavy on his damp hair; he think he can almost taste its flavour through the salt and copper welling up from his bottom lip, old precious mighty gold. The metal is alien on his sweaty skin, still, after all this time of it having been the shackles and chains of his existence, the jewellery that signifies his sins, demonstrates how far he has fallen, and how far he is yet to fall. 

It seems paradox, but he is thankful for Henry's hand that guides him, its wide palm and long-fingered sprawl giving him the strength not to tremble, not to moan and beg when the darkness of worshipful throats becomes intolerable.

He knows how this will end though. Someone will retreat with a wet pop, mouth an expression of surprise, perhaps be dragged off, Henry can be so jealous. He will be dripping and desperate, and ready, so, so ready for what must come, beyond any point, where he would have cared for propriety.

Henry raises him to his feet with the slightest touch of his hand, and the robe falls away and with it the last shred of decency. There is only gold on his body, and the dark, hungry eyes of the crowd, and then, Henry pulls him down onto his lap. He is not gentle as he pushes into him, it burns, it must hurt, his pain is the offering, his sacrifice, and yet it comes with the deep ache of desire, the need that sparks in the pain's wake, a surf he can ride as Henry's hips roll into him like waves against the shore, relentless.

They have gone far beyond the boundaries of civilised society by now, to a place between dream and waking, where myth is wrought, where every thrust of Henry's cock consolidates his claim, where Coward ceases to exist in his mortal form – he _is_ Britannia, as much as Henry is a creature cut from the vastness of space with stars for eyes and skin made from shadows. 

Coward can only imagine what a sight they must present, his head tilted back against Henry's shoulder as far as the collar allows, his body arranged like a doll and also used like one. Such an unspeakable thing, to fuck a king, a godly privilege indeed. All other days, every word that falls from his lips is law, every wave of his hand decides between life and death. Now his mouth is voiceless and his fingers are claws seeking for purchase. This is not weakness though. It is the price he pays for his reign, a tribute no one dares criticise, for tomorrow that same mouth will pronounce judgement again and that same hand sign death warrants. And as much as Coward abhors the _idea_ of being owned, somehow he revels in its realisation. For this one moment he is rid of guilt or shame, is just sensations roughly stitched together by Henry's passion. 

“See what I gave you, my sweet,” Henry whispers through the blindness, his fingers impossibly long on the tender whiteness of Coward's flesh, the feel of him inside so overwhelming, choking almost, Coward's breath is coming in short, ragged gasps. The world begins to spin, the void pressing in from the great beyond, filtering like light through the cracks of a wall. Only it's dark, so dark. 

He is raw, beyond pleasure and pain, dazed, his body unravelling, falling away, only a net of nerves now, strings of an instrument, and Henry plays him to the very tune of existence.

“Do you see, darling,” he asks, and Coward does, sees, eyes closed, the unfathomable truth of it all. 

There are no limits. Time uncoils between the cruel glitter of stars into endless blackness. He would drift off and fade away, if it weren't for Henry anchoring him in the here and now, hands and cock gentle as meat hooks in his flesh. Coward writhes, twists around the penetration, but he is held fast, no use for struggles or pleas. He wants to though, wants nothing more, and that's when he understands, Henry is waiting for an answer.

“I do, I do see it.” The words, as brittle and low as they were, echo like trombones from the walls, deafening in Coward's overwrought ears.

“Don't forget it,” Henry says, and the darkness is gone, replaced by white-hot sensation as Henry's nails dig into the tender skin of his nipples, the agony bright as sunshine, and Coward's almost forgotten body jerks, just into the right direction it seems, because pleasure is drowning out the pain, and then fingers wrap themselves around Coward's cock, so wicked in their pull and twist he does not last longer than a couple of strokes before the spectacle finally reaches its climax.


End file.
